


Let it Snow (II)

by thespiritualmultinerd



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: 221B Baker Street, M/M, Snow, Winter
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-12
Updated: 2017-02-12
Packaged: 2018-09-23 22:22:52
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,525
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9682670
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thespiritualmultinerd/pseuds/thespiritualmultinerd
Summary: (Okay, so I wrote two versions of this story. This is the longer one.)Inspired by the song Let it Snow.John is trying to move on and have a life of his own, but he can't seem to stay away from Baker Street. Maybe it is time he stopped pretending?





	

The first time he only came over to drop something off. No big deal, just in and out through the door again. Perhaps he lingered a moment or two, but after all they had not seen each other for almost a week. That is what you do, John told himself. You exchange a few words. Make sure he is alright. He was out on the rainy street again soon enough.  
The second time was a frosty morning in January. He had some time to spare and decided to stop by and wish him a happy new year. That is what you do, is it not? Courtesy. He was not surprised to find Sherlock in his dressing robe, completely ignorant of the messy state of the flat. The Christmas decorations were still up so it looked nice enough. Homey. John stayed for tea. It was calm and quiet, the winter sun leaving the rooms in a soft light. Just the two of them by the kitchen table. For a moment it almost felt like the old days. When John stepped out into the frosty street again the cold air stood in contrast to the warmth that slowly had started spreading through his body.  
The third time John did not really have an excuse. He told himself that he should check up on him, see if he needed help with a case. Or help cleaning. Reminder to eat. Anything, really. That is what friends do. When he reached Baker Street it was already dark and a few snowflakes could be seen whisking around in the light from the street lamps. The hallway was dimly lit and a bit chill from the wind. It smelled familiar, like home. The rooms upstairs were warmer. Sherlock was clearly pleased to see him, even though he tried to hide it with a sarcastic remark about managing perfectly fine on his own. John hid his smile as he took off his coat and looked around the flat.  
\- No tea? he asked.  
\- Mrs. Hudson is out of town, Sherlock admitted a bit unwillingly.  
\- Oh, so you finally put those two together.  
Sherlock looked like a kid trying to come up with a clever response and John gave up hiding his amusement any longer. He laughed and made his way to the kitchen.  
\- Come on, I’ll make us something warm to drink. It’s bloody freezing outside.  
Shortly after they were curled up in their old chairs with some mulled wine. Sherlock had lit a fire and it was cracking pleasantly, throwing a warm glow over the two of them. John could not help but secretly admire the way the light reflected in Sherlock’s dark curls and made his eyes sparkle. There had always been something angelic about the way he looked, and the soft light only enhanced the notion. The snow was falling down hard outside, big flakes whirling and gathering in the corners of the frosty window. It would probably be difficult to get a cab at this point, John thought. He should stay a bit longer.  
The conversation was rather polite at first, but soon went smoother and smoother, falling into old habits of laughter and amity. The weather outside was forgotten, other than being used as an excuse for staying by the fire. When they both went silent for a moment John could not help but keep his gaze on the detective, smiling lovingly. This was comfortable. Safe. This was the way it was supposed to be, always. Suddenly Sherlock looked up and caught his eye. Feeling a bit exposed, John raised his eyebrows and glanced at his watch. It was late, much later than he had thought. The snow was still falling heavily outside the window and the fire was fading.  
\- You need to get home, Sherlock stated.  
\- Yeah… I suppose so.  
John sighed and stretched his limbs, unwilling to get up. Sherlock sat still for a moment before he rose and reached for his phone.  
\- I’ll call you a cab. No use in trying to hail one in this weather.  
\- Right. Thanks.  
A few minutes later they were both descending the stairs to the front door, John putting on his hat and gloves. Sherlock opened the door to see if the cab had arrived and then hastily closed it again to prevent the cold wind from sweeping in.  
\- Nope, not yet.  
John shivered. He had felt so warm up in the flat, but now he started to feel the cold coming creeping back. His heart started to feel heavy as well. Just the thought of going out into the cold only to come home to a dark, empty flat did not feel very promising. He looked at Sherlock.  
\- Well, uhm… thanks for tonight. It was… really nice.  
Sherlock smiled in response, but there was a sadness in his eyes that he failed to conceal. Or maybe he didn’t try to, not this time. John had seen it before and he knew perfectly well what it meant. He felt it too. Silently they looked at each other, exchanging the words they were too afraid to speak aloud. Then suddenly the honking of a horn was heard outside and they both startled. John took a deep breath and Sherlock cleared his throat, opening the door to the cold night. The cab was waiting with its wipers on and the whirling snow caught in its headlights. John stepped out, careful not to slip on the stone.  
\- Well, goodnight then.  
\- Goodnight, John.  
He walked to the cab without looking back, the snow whipping his face and the cold wind making his eyes tear. As he reached the car he turned around. Sherlock was still standing in the doorway looking at him. John tried to ignore how heavy his heart felt, raised a hand to wave goodbye and got into the cab.  
\- Going home?  
\- Uhm… yes, I suppose.  
The cab driver smiled at him in the rear-view mirror.  
\- I’ll need an address, sir.  
John looked at the door of 221 again. He could still see the silhouette of Sherlock, barely visible against the dim light from the hallway behind him. Why did they always end up like this? Always in the cold, always alone. It wasn’t right. How could it be, when it all had felt so perfect up in the flat only minutes ago? Safe. Home.  
Home.  
\- You know what? John said, looking at the cab driver again. Could you hold on one minute?  
Before the driver had time to answer John was out the door and back on the snowy sidewalk. As fast as he could he made his way up to the door and to a slightly confused Sherlock.  
\- Did you forget something? John?  
John looked at the detective for a second before answering. A few snowflakes had landed in his dark hair and the pale cheeks were already blushing from the cold air. John bit his lip, trying to work up his courage.  
\- Well, yes… I mean…  
Sherlock’s eyes narrowed as he tried to figure out the intention of the doctor. Finally John shrugged with a half-hearted laugh.  
\- I thought maybe we could order some food or something. If you want to.  
\- Yes… yes, I suppose we could.  
Leaving Sherlock confused but clearly content John went to pay the cabbie and send him on his way. When he came back Sherlock was still standing in the doorway, apparently lost in thought. John went past him into the hallway and started to take off his slightly wet clothes.  
\- Sherlock?  
\- Yes?  
\- Do you wanna close the door?  
\- Oh.  
Sherlock looked with surprise on the wet snow on his dressing robe. John stepped forward and gently pulled Sherlock inside by the arm while closing the door. He brushed off some of the snow from the clothes and then, after a bit of hesitation, carefully ran his hand a few times through Sherlock’s dark curls, trying to stop the melting flakes from dripping down on his face.  
\- John?  
He stopped and met his eyes. Sherlock looked more vulnerable than ever, almost pained. John swallowed.  
\- Yes?  
He could see that Sherlock was struggling to find the words, but John already knew the question. It was time for him to decide on an answer.  
\- No, he said. No, I’m not going home.  
He took a deep breath and taking a hold of Sherlock’s hand he stepped closer to him. His other hand was still resting in the detective’s hair and he kept it there, keeping his eyes steadily locked on Sherlock’s. This was not the time to back down.  
\- I am home, he said as firmly as he could. I don’t want to leave.  
Sherlock’s face softened and slowly lit up, the light coming back to his eyes. He pressed John’s hand with his long fingers and exhaled deeply, looking more relieved than John had ever seen him.  
\- Good, he said. Because I would very much want you to stay.  
They both smiled softly, lost in each others’ eyes. The cold was forgotten. All that was left was the warmth spreading through the rooms of 221b Baker Street where the fire had been lit once again.


End file.
